


The Torches of Hecate

by fleurdelilies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Mythology, Badass Black Family Witches, Canonical Character Death, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Explicit Language, Flashbacks, Multi, Non-Graphic Violence, Parallel Relationships, Purebloods Everywhere, Sex (Maybe?), The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, star-crossed lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 12:02:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16174673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fleurdelilies/pseuds/fleurdelilies
Summary: Before she abandoned family and heritage for love, Andromeda had been first and foremost a Black sister. After the defeat of Voldemort, Andromeda Tonks seeks to pick up the remaining fragments of her disavowed family amidst the debris of reconstruction. Faced with the task of rebuilding bridges long ago burnt, Andromeda relies not only on old Magic for strength - but also the memory of the man who’d inspired her to give it all up.Everyone always said that three Black sisters were a most auspicious number.





	The Torches of Hecate

**Author's Note:**

> Hello to anyone who reads this, I very much appreciate you taking the time to click on my little old fic. I've been reading fanfiction for over ten years now (and probably been writing it in my brain for longer). In any case, this is the first time I've put pen to paper, figuratively, and blasted it out on to the webs for people to read. Thank you for joining me on this ride.
> 
> Disclaimer:
> 
> The Old Religion, or old ways, is a result of extensive internet research and heavily borrows from multiple pre-Christian traditions, including the Celts. Because I am aware of quite a few religious currents that celebrate some of the holidays mentioned in the story, please contact me if you are offended by my depiction or can provide further (and more accurate) information.
> 
> As always, the following is a work of fiction based on J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter universe. Everything else in the story is of my own imagination.

**Tonks Residence -** **_Beltane,_ ** **May 1, 1999**

The steady warmth emanating from Andromeda’s crackling fireplace was a far cry from the raging Beltane bonfires of her youth.

Fascinated by the bright flickering flames, little Teddy rapidly toddled over to the sooty hearth as fast as his chubby legs could take him - only to be abruptly stopped by the magical barrier Andromeda had put in place. Plopping unto his bottom, he scrunched his button nose in surprise and his hair suddenly turned an unnatural shade of orange, undulating vertically atop his head.

Teddy gurgled, delighted by the turn of events.

Andromeda’s heart constricted at the sound. Her Teddy was a _happy_  baby, so achingly reminiscent of her Dora as an infant. Only a year old, his cheeky laugh and dimpled smile were already his most prominent Tonks features.

“I’d never heard of Beltane before, Mrs Tonks,” announced Harry, scooping up his impish godson with capable arms and settling the boy on his hip. “Even ‘Mione couldn’t tell me much about it.”

This change of perspective quite suited Teddy, who immediately began pulling at the buttons on Harry’s obviously worn tan corduroy jacket.

Andromeda eyed the jacket thoughtfully but bit her tongue.

In the year since the Battle at Hogwarts, she’d grown fond of the Potter boy and even come to regard him as something like a nephew (they were after all, technically related by way of his paternal grandmother). Out of respect for Harry, Andromeda would never harang the boy into buying some decent new clothes, having learned tact on the subject of personal finances since marrying into a middle-class existence of her own.

But she sometimes  _desperately_ wanted to.

Born into a societal class clinging on to their last shreds of old grandeur, Andromeda had grown up hearing about the fortune tucked away inside the Potter vaults - which only doubled in size with the tidy sum left to Charlus Potter by his Uncle Fleamont. Not that any decent pureblood girl would marry a blood traitor for merchant money, but envious whispers acknowledged it was a substantial amount of galleons, potentially enough to rival the Malfoy vaults. Certainly, it must have been enough for Harry to purchase clothing that hadn’t had any previous owners.

Then and there, Andromeda decided to gift him a dragon-hide jacket for his upcoming birthday. Sirius would have approved.

“Well, you’ve always been at Hogwarts for it, Harry,” explained Andromeda, putting the finishing touches on a table piled with enough food to put even Molly Weasley to shame. It was an extravagance for her, but Andromeda knew she would send Harry away with enough leftovers to feed him and Hermione for at least two weeks.

“But Dumbledore never -”

“Dumbledore, may he rest in peace, was not a fan of our old ways,” interrupted Andromeda, quick to nip any Dumbledore talk in the bud. Brilliant man he had been, but always so distrustful of any old traditions that would undermine his own power and campaign for progress.

“As witches and wizards have become less isolated and more integrated with the Muggle world, most wizarding families have converted to Muggle celebrations for convenience’s sake. The only ones to hold on to the old ways were the purebloods.”

Harry eyed the fireplace warily, a slight frown pulling at his mouth. “So are these old ways… Dark?”

Andromeda sighed, slightly exasperated. There were _very_ _few_ good things she had to say about her upbringing, but she had to admit that her family had been much more comprehensive on teaching the nature of Magic. Far more instructive than any professor ever hired by Albus Dumbledore, barring her own son-in-law of course.

“No, definitely not. Beltane is a celebration of a more primal nature, it harkens back to the days before our ancestors developed methods and tools to harness and pervert Magic. Beltane is a time for renewal, rebirth, and courtship.”

Harry hummed, thoughtful. “Did you celebrate every year with your family?”

“We did, or at least Ted and I tried to…” At the thought of her late husband, a dull pain blossomed inside her chest, reawakening like an old injury. It was always there now, sometimes dormant, and Andromeda had made her peace with its constant presence. It was almost reassuring, the gaping hole carved out by the loss of her family, always reminding her that they had existed, that she'd had a whole family once. For now, Teddy's sunshine would serve as a balm to her wound.

“Last year’s festivities were interrupted, for obvious reasons,” she continued, a hard edge to the words.

The previous May, Beltane celebrations had ground to a halt as a silvery hyena bounded into her living room, effectively silencing the dinner conversation. Teddy had been delighted, chubby fingers attempting to grasp at the luminous wisps of magic.

Remus was the first to answer Fred Weasley’s call to arms, despite all attempts to discourage him from charging into battle after weeks of malnourishment and fatigue. With the full moon only ten days away, it was a risk for even a talented dueller like Remus.

With their newborn son coddled in her arms, Dora looked torn between asking Remus to stay or leaving with him.

But her hard-headed son-in-law would not budge and so Dora reluctantly let him leave after kissing his newborn son and young wife goodbye. Though Andromeda attempted to give them privacy, she heard Dora murmur  _‘If you need me, I will come to you’_ within his embrace.

She knew then that Nymphadora would not be content to sit quietly and wait.

In the weeks and months following the battle, whenever she closed her eyes at night, Andromeda could still hear herself arguing, imploring, _begging_ her headstrong Dora to stay. She could feel her own mounting desperation as her reckless daughter paced the parlour, wild-eyed with worry, before hastily deciding to act. She could picture Dora cuddling and kissing her infant son goodbye, voice cracking ever so slightly.

But when Dora turned to her, her daughter’s face was serious and her eyes blazing. _'Take care of him until I return,’_ she instructed, imbued with quiet determination.

The last thing Andromeda remembered before slipping into her medicated slumber is the strength of Dora’s final, fierce embrace before disappearing from their lives with a sharp  _crack._

It was Teddy’s whimpers that brought her back from the memories, the little boy crying for her to take him from Harry’s arms. His young godfather had fallen silent, most likely submerged in his own recollections of the previous May.

For that very reason, Andromeda had invited Harry to celebrate with her and Teddy.

With the looming prospect of the highly publicized memorial at Hogwarts, Harry had been roped into the role of chief of ceremonies by the imposing Augusta Longbottom. Following the end of the war, Madame Longbottom had established herself as Chairwoman of the Ladies’ Society Fundraising Committee for the Hogwarts Reparations Trust.

Wielding her family influence and formidable headwear, Madame Longbottom had selected a motley party of reputable witches to aid her efforts - including Mrs Andromeda Tonks (née Black).

The Fundraising Committee had planned a large and lengthy event filled with speeches to commemorate the dead from both wars, as well as enough food to feed both attendees and Hogwarts staff and students. To his chagrin, Harry was scheduled to give a speech - an error of which Andromeda was unable to dissuade the committee - as well as unveil a large memorial plaque at the entrance of the Great Hall.

To atone for the massive, public, and most likely overwhelming event Harry would be subjected to, Andromeda had planned Beltane as a private time for them to mourn the past - all the while embracing new beginnings.

After all, Beltane was about rebirth, fresh life, and youth.

Taking her whimpering grandson from Harry’s arms, Andromeda strapped a gurgling Teddy into his high chair, leftover from Dora’s infancy. Fixing Teddy a plate of mushy foods, she handed Harry a plate of his own in the process. “Here, help yourself.”

The boy gratefully heaped mounds of succulent roast beef, tender carrots and peas, and fluffy mashed potatoes. Not exactly a traditional spread of fruit and wine, but it would have to do.

While Harry wolfed down her cooking, Andromeda spoon-fed Teddy mashed potatoes that he diligently spat out on to his high chair and smeared on his face. Occasionally, she would spare a glance at the young boy - no, _man_ \- who sat at her dinner table.

Despite having met James Potter only once in his youth, there was no mistaking uncanny physical resemblance between father and son. Same handsome thin face, dishevelled midnight hair, and lanky-muscled frame.

However, to her eye, it was Remus Lupin’s influence that became the most apparent to Andromeda. Upon meeting the boy, she had recognized the same starved look in his eyes: a hunger for family, friends, and unconditional love. Unbeknownst to Harry, whose emerald eyes had misted with restrained tears upon first meeting his godson, Andromeda had looked on with quiet approval.

In Harry, she had seen all the traits she had come to appreciate in Remus - simple humility, unassuming charm, and quiet dedication. As much as she had enjoyed meeting young James, whose mischief had rivalled and complemented her cousin Sirius’, it was these humble qualities that made Harry all the dearer to her.

And more than anyone else currently in Andromeda’s life, Harry understood the importance of family.

“Have you heard anything from the Malfoys recently?” she inquired politely during the meal, carefully referring to her remaining sister’s family by her husband’s last name.

Andromeda used a cloth napkin to wipe away a smear of mushy peas from Teddy’s cheek. Her grandson had yet to master hand-to-mouth coordination.

Once Harry paused and swallowed a forkful of roast, he shook his head apologetically. “Malfoy’s still being monitored as far as I know, but Mrs Malfoy hasn’t been seen or heard from in a while. I’d say she left for Europe like a lot of the others, but well…”

“You doubt she’d leave Draco?” she asked.

“Doubtful,” snorted Harry, on the same train of thought.

Cissa’s loyalty to her son was infamous, to say the least.

“Well, you’re right of course,” she replied, setting aside Teddy’s finished dinner. He’d done enough fingerpainting for the night.

With a flick of her wand, she summoned an envelope which soared into her hands from a bookshelf. On the back was a broken wax seal, inlaid with the Malfoy family crest. “This arrived with the morning owl. Narcissa… she says she would like to see me.”

She extended the letter for Harry’s perusal, knowing it contained no sensitive information (the Black family treated all letters as potential blackmail). It was a concise missive, a courteous but stiff invitation to Narcissa’s new residence. An address would be provided upon RSVP.

Although Andromeda had checked for any Dark magic on her own, Harry still performed a few simple detection charms he’d learned in Auror training. It didn’t seem to be a curse, a trick, or a trap.

“It seems to be clean,” he declared, scanning the contents.

“I thought so too. It doesn’t seem forged either.”

Returning the letter to its intended recipient, Harry leaned over to pick up Teddy, who had speedily crawled over to his favourite visitor once released from the abhorred high chair.

“Would you consider seeing Mrs Malfoy?”

Before losing both daughter and husband in less than a year, Andromeda would have never even considered acknowledging such an intrusive question - let alone from a young man whose connections to the Black family were tangential at best.

Andromeda’s strained relationship with her family was a subject those around her had learned not to broach. Even Ted, who had always felt some guilt over what she’d chosen to sacrifice, rarely got his wife to open up. And he had been her best friend, whose absence she still felt every day of her life.

But the Potter boy, _Harry_ , had become something of an exception - a special case, if you will. Not only had she had come to rely on him for help with Teddy, but Harry had also been the sole witness to a significant moment between the two remaining Black sisters.

Simply put, Andromeda did not know what possessed her to go to the Malfoy trial.

One of the most publicized events of the year, the wizarding public was almost bloodthirsty in its desire to witness the fall of one of its most revered families. With the Dementor’s Kiss barred as a possible sentence, the crowds gathered outside the courtroom demanded _‘Life! Life! Life!’_ as the Malfoys entered the courtroom.

It was nothing short of mayhem.

In that foreboding tribunal chamber located within the bowels of the Ministry, the victims of Lucius Malfoy and his cronies called for his incarceration as the prosecution rolled out an unfathomably long list of crimes. Widows, orphans, and bereaved friends and relatives testified to the depravities of the Dark Lord and his faithful followers - determining which of those Lucius and his son had been involved in.

Unfortunately, the Malfoy men were tried simultaneously rather than as separate cases for expediency’s sake (a decision the Granger girl had unsuccessfully protested in court, alleging a violation of due process).

The final effect was disconcerting.

Unlike the raving Lestrange brothers who preceded them, father and son stood stony-faced before their accusers - faces marble-white but unflinching as allegations were hurled at them. Their Malfoy glamour had lost its characteristic sheen: faces drawn and pale, hair dull, and eyes shuttered against the prying gaze of the Wizengamot.

As regal as a painted Madonna, Narcissa sat directly across from Andromeda with the public, surrounded by Aurors to separate her from the masses frothing at the mouth and expressionless to everyone but her sister. Her gaze was trained, fixed on her sole son.

The room only truly fell quiet when Harry took the stand, testifying in favour of Narcissa and her son. Despite Narcissa not being on trial, his defence of the mother was impassioned, recalling that without her intervention he would not have been able to defeat Voldemort.

To the audience’s discomfort, he reminded them that Narcissa Malfoy’s love for her son had been a direct catalyst for the victory over Voldemort.

Draco, Harry argued, was a pawn in the game of men far more powerful and cunning than him. Even Dumbledore realized that Draco had only been set up for failure - Draco had never fought to win the war, only survive it.

On Lucius’ behalf, Harry spoke sparsely. Although his house and Gringotts account had been at You-Know-Who’s disposal, toward the end Lucius was rarely an active player in Voldemort’s schemes. The man’s fall from grace after the attack on the Ministry had rendered him inconsequential in the eyes of the Dark Lord. Moreover, neither man had been truly loyal to the cause. They’d renounced Voldemort while he was still alive (although just prior to his defeat, as any self-respecting Slytherin would).

It was a powerful, memorable testimony in favour of the Malfoys, whose last-minute self-interest had indebted Harry to them. It was also, Andromeda knew, not a testimony entirely of Harry's crafting. His friend Hermione, incensed by the Wizengamot's dismissal of her objection to group trials, had coached Harry relentlessly and now sat fuming in the seats reserved for the public.

Whilst the members of the Wizengamot deliberated in tense murmurs, the media, the accused, and the witnesses sat with bated breath. With her sister still seated beside the Malfoy solicitor, only Andromeda noticed how Cissa had gone absolutely rigid. Her lips moved minimally but rapidly, as if she was whispering to herself.

Andromeda knew better - her sister was praying to the Goddess.

In the end, it was the testimony of another Hogwarts student, Terry Boot, that played a deciding factor in Draco’s sentencing.

Although Death Eater students were expected to partake in the Carrow siblings’ punishments, no students punished by Draco ever experienced anything more severe than a sharp Stinging Hex. Most often, like Boot himself, they were subject to a mildly disfiguring jinx before being summarily sent on their way and instructed to keep quiet.

The Wizengamot came to a decision: no Kiss for either man, but five years of probation for Draco and a ten year Azkaban sentence for Lucius - contingent on his cooperation in testifying against his fellow Death Eaters.

Draco would be required to return to Hogwarts to finish his schooling and help with the reconstruction efforts.

Bedlam ensued in the courtroom as photographers and journalists alike erupted into a flurry of flashes and scribbling Quick-Quotes Quills. The Acting Chief Warlock, Griselda Marchbanks, was forced to call for order since the next defendant - Mulciber - was still awaiting trial.

The next morning, the front page of the Daily Prophet was emblazoned with a picture of Malfoy Sr.’s brief whispered goodbye to his wife and son before being whisked away into custody.

It was then, right before the Aurors came to escort mother and son from the room, that Andromeda made accidental eye contact with her sister.

What struck her the most was not the sheer vulnerability in Cissa’s eyes, but the split second it took for her sister to recognize her.

All of a sudden, the years of distance between them had never felt as real and as tangible. Despite being sisters, born of the same womb and to the same House, Andromeda felt as if Cissa had been rendered a stranger.

The gaping vacuum inside her chest created by her family’s deaths, which left her without breath at the most inopportune moments, immediately expanded as she saw the true scope of her own loss. Since her marriage, Andromeda had never felt faint, but in a split second she was seventeen again and struggling to breathe. Not only had she lost the dead,  _she'd also lost the living._

Andromeda did not even notice that she was swaying on her feet until she felt the warm, steadying hand of the Potter boy on her shoulder.

And so to Harry, _and_   _only Harry_ , would Andromeda ever consider giving the answer to such a personal question.

“Yes,” she replied resolutely, heart softening as she looked at Teddy in Harry’s arms.

“Then whatever you need, you can count on me, Mrs Tonks.”

 

* * *

  

**Grimmauld Place - Summer Solstice, June 21, 1970**

“Andromeda, _must_ you be so rude to Rabastan Lestrange?” demanded an exasperated Aunt Walburga, sweeping into the drawing room in a swirl of velvet robes, with all the airs of an injured countess. For reasons unknown to Andromeda, her aunt always wore dark velvet, even in that summer’s unseasonable heat.

“Andromeda dear, sarcasm is just so unbecoming in a young lady,” Grandmother Irma Black helpfully chimed in, already seated by the fireplace. The night was too warm for a fire, but Walburga always insisted. “In my day, Amelia Greengrass’ entire engagement was called off because of a joke she made at dinner.”

Great-aunt Cassie, Irma’s sister-in-law, snorted in derision. “That wasn’t because of a joke. It was because she was caught in a broom closet with her legs around a half-blood and her knickers around her ankles. My Irma, is your memory failing already?”

Seventeen-year-old Andromeda Black refrained from rolling her eyes at her gossipping elders, knowing that her mother would not shield her from Walburga if things got nasty - and they so often did whenever Cygnus Black’s family visited his only sister.

After a particularly excruciating family dinner, one of the few times so many Blacks could be persuaded to convene in Aunt Walburga’s ridiculous town fortress, the ladies and gentlemen of the party had retired to separate rooms. In Uncle Orion’s private study on the third floor, the men were off to puff on imported cigars and gamble away Galleons that only wizards of their standing could afford to spare.

In the opulent second-floor drawing room, the ladies gathered for coffee, digestifs, and scathing gossip. The most recent subject of interest was the Lestrange men, the family of Bella’s abhorrent new fiancé. Ever since they had formally announced Bella’s betrothal on Beltane, the Lestranges - specifically Rabastan - had been impossible to escape.

The ink had barely dried on Bellatrix’s engagement contract before Rodolphus’ younger brother had begun to drop his own heavy hints towards Andromeda.  

Purposefully seated beside her during dinner, Rabastan had immediately attempted to ensnare Andromeda for every social event of the upcoming season. Under the watchful gaze of her delightful family, she’d successfully parried every invitation with a myriad of excuses before he tried to secure her as his date for the Malfoys’ Yule Ball. She’d been unable to conjure up an excuse for an event so far in the future ( _it was only Midsummer_ ) but had been saved by the scraping of chairs as Uncle Orion hastily adjourned the dinner party.

Before Rabastan could continue to harang her, Andromeda daintily excused herself and scurried away to the drawing room. Pureblood witches don’t run, but Andromeda came suspiciously close.

“Andromeda, _look at me when I am addressing you_ ,” commanded Aunt Walburga imperiously.

Seated across from Walburga, Mother shot her sister-in-law a sharp look. Though her mother would never admit so, Andromeda suspected her mother found Aunt Walburga’s manners to be lacking - and Druella Black prided herself on immaculate deportment.

“What did I do wrong, Aunt Walburga?” Andromeda sighed, dangerously verging on insolent. The older she became, the lower her tolerance was for these insufferable dinners at Grimmauld Place. “He asked me if I was interested in attending the theatre with him and I answered honestly.”

“You said only if you sat in separate boxes,” Cissa reminded her under her breath, as if Andromeda would soon forget Rabastan’s bewildered expression.

“Aunt Walburga, won’t you believe me if I say that I honestly believe the theatre is best enjoyed when you eliminate all possible distractions?” countered Andromeda, as sweetly as she could manage. Although it was fun to frustrate her aunt, Walburga was known for her volatile temper and predilection for nasty hexes.

Aunt Cassie smirked mischievously, already sipping on her second digestif. “Young men can be such a distraction, can’t they darling?”

Playing with the fine beading on her new robes, Andromeda pointedly ignored Cissa’s daintily stifled giggle beside her. It probably was not the moment to point out that Rabastan was not a distraction of the good kind.

Just turned fifteen, Cissa had at last been deemed old enough to partake in these post-dinner conversations. Her younger sister took to gossip and scheming with the type of aplomb that Andromeda knew she herself would have to fake all her life. Even Bella despised these affairs, despite being Walburga’s beloved goddaughter.

“Rabastan is so handsome though,” whispered Cissa beside her, careful to not be overheard. Breathtakingly lovely since birth, Cissa had just begun to receive her own formal offers for courtship from some of Britain’s finest families.

Andromeda suspected Cissa was waiting for a specific one from a certain scion from a certain prominent House, known for siring blonde sons.

“Rabastan would make a fine husband for you, Andromeda. Wouldn’t he, Druella?” declared Aunt Walburga, who considered herself an authority on all subjects pertaining to family. Her husband, Andromeda’s Uncle Orion, was set to inherit the Black family Patriarchy and as such, Walburga believed herself to be closer to divinity each day, as long as Patriarch Arcturus would hurry up and bite the dust already.

“ _Ha!_ ” snorted Andromeda’s great-grandmother, Violetta Black, breaking her silence from her own spot beside the fireplace.

A former Bulstrode witch, the true family Matriarch was a wizened crone almost as ancient as the odious tapestry that hung in the room. Perpetually draped in swaths of black lace since her husband’s death thirty years prior, Violetta resembled a very blind, very frilly bat as she scrutinized Andromeda through her golden monocle.

“This girl of yours is quite smart, Druella, unlike the first one,” she croaked approvingly, with a pointed glance at Bellatrix, who was fuming against the window. “I went to school with Leta Lestrange and I remember her father Corvus before all the unpleasantness happened. This branch of the family isn’t so distantly related to them as you’d like to believe, Walburga.”

Among purebloods, phrases such as ‘the unpleasantness’ or ‘the little trouble’ were nearly always euphemisms for incest, murder, or Muggles (or some combination of the three). In this case, Andromeda had interacted enough with the Lestranges that she would rather not find out.

Violetta’s daughter, Aunt Cassie, made no attempt to hide her sharp laugh. “ _No one_ in Pureblood Britain is distantly related, Mummy-dearest. That’s why it’s better to live on the continent than start _marrying cousins_.”

“How can you think so, when you’ve never been married at all?” rallied Irma, in quick defence of her daughter Walburga’s marriage.

Cassiopeia Black, or Aunt Cassie as she was preferred to be addressed, was the spinster aunt of her generation - a detail which Grandmother Irma never let her forget.

After the defeat of Grindelwald (and a society scandal that meant she never spoke to her father again), she’d absconded to France to live out her days in a forgotten Black family property in Normandy. Ridiculously attractive even at an advanced age, Aunt Cassie’s rare visits to Britain were often solely to scandalize her family - arriving in a flurry of luxurious perfume, sensuous silk, and unabashed hedonism.

And while Grandmother Irma might relish in Aunt Cassie’s unmarried state, Andromeda had long suspected her great-aunt never wanted for company in the drafty old French castle.

Ignoring her daughter and daughter-in-law’s petty jabs at each other, Great-grandmother Violetta forged on. Borderline incest, after all, was just one of the many dubious ways the purebloods of Britain had forged their Houses and kept themselves pure for generations. At this point in history, quibbling about it was simply a moot point.

“The Lestranges have already witnessed the collapse of one of their lines, only the Goddess knows if they have it in them to continue this one. Tell me, girl, did your father ascertain that _everything_ would be in order when the time comes?” Violetta asked, peering inquisitively at Bellatrix, her suggestive meaning clear to everyone in the room.

Bella’s visage whitened before turning a peculiar shade of purple, hand fisting in the pocket of her dress that Andromeda knew concealed her wand. Father had refused to buy Bella a wand holster for her birthday, leaving Bella to accidentally singe the inner lining of all her formal robes.

Knowing Bella’s quick temper was often her downfall, Mother hastened to address her grandmother-in-law’s concerns. “Madame, Cygnus would never sign a contract if all wasn’t perfectly in -”

“I don’t know, Mummy-dearest,” cut in Aunt Cassie with just a hint of bite, grey eyes dancing merrily. “Such _ladylike hands_ those boys had.”

“Let’s hope Rodolphus isn’t ladylike in _all_ of his places!” hooted the old woman nastily, mother and daughter sharing a good laugh at Bellatrix’s expense.

Scrambling for self-control, Andromeda fought the insane urge to laugh by biting the inside of her cheek and clenching her hands into the folds of her elegant dress. Cissa remained impassive as always, but Andromeda heard the tiniest of exhale of amusement.

Bellatrix, always at odds with the crotchety Matriarch, shot them a look of injured betrayal, as if she hadn’t laughed at Andromeda’s expense a million times before. Bella didn’t dare retaliate under their great-grandmother’s eye, but something in her expression promised vengeance. Since childhood, Bella had made sure to toe the line under the adults’ noses and unleash demons behind their backs.

Andromeda took note - she would need to ward her room that night against one of Bella’s signature nasty little hexes.

“ _Madame!_ ” hissed a scandalized Grandmother Irma, her prim features pinched in dismay. “There is nothing wrong with their hands, they’re perfectly formed. Just the right size.”

As this set off another round of laughter, leaving Grandmother Irma looked vaguely perplexed and insulted.

According to Aunt Cassie after a few drinks, Irma Crabbe had once been a great society beauty - considered by all wizards the catch of the season. However, a visibly unhappy marriage had set unkind tongues wagging, with pureblood society suggesting that Irma’s naive conservative tendencies had driven her philandering husband (Grandfather Pollux) to find his entertainment elsewhere.

However, since Aunt Cassie rarely interacted with her family entirely sober, Andromeda could not confidently ascertain the veracity of this last bit of gossip.

“You know what they say about  _hands_ , girl,” leered Violetta, who greatly enjoyed needling her prudish daughter-in-law. “They match the -”

“I think that’s quite enough, Aunt Violetta,” intervened Lucretia Prewett (née Black), who’d been quietly amused for most of the conversation. “Andromeda is not even out of school yet and Narcissa is barely fifteen.”

The stylish Lucretia Prewett was Andromeda’s favourite aunt, even though she was technically her cousin some many times removed.

Although Mrs Prewett also lived in London with her attractive husband, she rarely made appearances at her brother Orion’s dinners. Her official excuse was that poor Ignatius’ asthma could not bear the stuffy air inside of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. Everyone unofficially knew that it was due to her poorly concealed loathing of her sister-in-law.

“ _Everyone_ knew what  _you_ were doing at fifteen, Lucretia,” snarked Walburga, who thought Lucretia was a bit wild, acting and dressing too young for her years. Personally, Andromeda believed Aunt Walburga was simply jealous.

While Aunt Walburga insisted on wearing the ostentatious dark robes of her youth, Lucretia paraded around in the colourful gauzy robes recently popularized by the songstress Celestina Warbeck. The whole effect was that although Lucretia was a few years older than Walburga, she looked almost two decades younger.

Additionally, the recent discovery that Great-aunt Cassie had also adopted the new lightweight styles (with a décolletage that plunged even more dangerously than Lucretia’s) only added insult to injury.

“It may come as a surprise to you, _dear Wally_ ,” retorted Aunt Lucretia, unintimidated by her cousin and sister-in-law. "But school is primarily intended for learning, not scheming to steal our best friend’s beau.”

As the vein in Walburga’s forehead bulged, Andromeda discreetly turned away and stared down a rather gaudy arrangement of hothouse flowers tucked amongst the potentially lethal knick-knacks. She could not risk making eye contact with Cissa.

Even Mother, who always tried to appease her tempestuous sister-in-law, had to press dainty fingertips against her lips to control herself.

For any outsider who dared breach the bounds of Black family secrecy, the official family story was that Walburga and Orion had been destined for each other since birth. There was simply no match with a more illustrious heritage and a higher pedigree in all of wizarding Britain.

Unofficially, Lucretia once revealed to Andromeda that Walburga had pursued Orion relentlessly after discovering his liaison with one of her best friends - and also biggest rivals. Walburga could not stand someone having something over her.

‘ _She’s always been greedy_ ,’ Lucretia had remarked disparagingly at a particularly awful dinner last winter, yet she was careful to not be overheard. Walburga was not above using her little house-elf as a spy.

“The Lestranges are a fine family for any of our girls to marry into,” said Mother in an attempt to corral the conversation back to the original subject, used to de-escalating family squabbles. Considering the clan of impetuous and headstrong Blacks she’d married into, the graceful Druella Rosier had become adept at keeping storms at bay. “We already have the Patriarch’s approval.”

“Arcturus is a _fool_ , a damned fool who only cares about that ridiculous pamphlet,” declared Violetta contemptuously, referring to her nephew - a foreboding man who abided by Cantankerous Nott’s _Pure-Blood Directory_ almost religiously.

Considering that Great-Uncle Arcturus was an ageing curmudgeon who rarely left the confines of the old Black family estate, Andromeda found it hard to believe he was also Aunt Lucretia’s father.

“When it comes down to it, _the Lestranges_ _don’t follow the old ways_ ,” Violetta continued darkly. “And you girls, don’t let these silly fools convince you otherwise: _that_ is much more unfortunate than a Squib or two in the family line. At least those can be dealt with.”

If Aunt Walburga had been able to _Avada_ her own grandmother, Andromeda was certain she would have done it without a second thought. As it was, most of the ladies in the room looked mildly uncomfortable with such an unwitting declaration of tolerance - but appeared unwilling to contradict the Matriarch.

For as long as Andromeda had been alive, the Black witches had been tip-toeing around her great-grandmother in hopes of staying in her favour (and in her will). The old bat was said to have a jewellery collection that rivalled the Selwyn family jewels.

“Nobody believes in that dragonshit anymore,” retorted Bella, who couldn’t give a rat’s ass about glittering diamonds unless they were cursed. At last, her patience had run out with the old bat. “Not in the Goddess or any of that nonsense you blather on about.”

“ _Bellatrix_ , don’t swear in front of your great-grandmother,” admonished Mother in a soft voice, never letting a harsh word cross her perfectly bred mouth.

“That _dragonshit_ , as you call it young lady, is the root of all Magic. To understand it and to venerate it is beyond your comprehension,” retorted Violetta scathingly, peering at Bella with quite a bit of condescending pity. “May the Goddess illuminate your path before you become irredeemable.”

“So may it be,” whispered Aunt Lucretia, so low that Andromeda barely picked up on it.

Great-grandmother Violetta was a living relic in many ways, but never more so than when she talked about the Old Religion.

In centuries past, wizards had believed Magic was a primal force, rooted deep in the bowels of the Earth. Its forces were supposed to be governed by the Goddess: a three-fold being who was maid, mother, and crone, and who had gifted wizards and witches with the ability to harness Her magic.

In Great-grandmother Violetta’s youth, the elder generations had still venerated the Goddess and the beings who’d ruled over her dominion, sources of all magic. Violetta had spoken of moonlit rituals and wild bonfire nights, extravagant feasts and ritual sacrifices to appease the Goddess.

Of course, with the advent of modernity and the development of wizardkind, most of the Old Religion had been lost. Only the oldest of purebloods remained faithful and, even then, Christmas and Easter were popular celebrations among the younger set.

Andromeda supposed bloody animal sacrifices could not really compete with brightly wrapped presents under a decorated tree.

Still, they gathered to celebrate the holy days to appease the old lady, who (Aunt Walburga hoped) had little time left to share with them. Andromeda was fascinated by the stories, even if she wasn’t quite the believer her great-grandmother was. Indeed, very few her age believed or even knew about the old ways at all.

In response to the unsolicited blessings, Bellatrix scowled - looking as if she wanted to tell Violetta exactly where her Goddess could go shove it.

Sensing her sister was at the end of her tether, Andromeda sought to escape any potential bloodshed. Her dress was new and she’d been hoping to wear it to the Young Ladies’ Society tea the following week.

“Pardon me, but I need to use the powder room,” announced Andromeda, seizing on the brief lull in the conversation. She hoping they would be leaving soon. After all, there was only so much time the Black women could all tolerate being in the same room together.

Once she’d hidden for a sufficient amount of time in the guest toilet, Andromeda reluctantly exited and headed down the dark second-floor corridor. For all her airs of grandeur, Walburga could certainly be odd - refusing to light the candles in the hallways during the summer. It was her aunt’s own damn fault that her guests kept tripping over that heinous umbrella stand.

_“Pssst! Pssst, Andy!”_

Quiet giggles came from the winding staircase at the opposite end of the hall. Two handsome little boys dangled their raven-haired heads precariously over the edge of the landing. Regulus, cautious as always, shot nervous looks at the drawing-room door, while Sirius greeted her with his usual debonair grin.

“Why good evening, dear cousin,” he drawled.

“Reggie, Sirius, you absolute _scoundrels_ ,” Andromeda smiled, by way of greeting. “How did you two escape on Kreacher’s watch?”

Little Sirius gave her his signature angelic smile, which told Andromeda that Kreacher had most likely been the subject of a devilish prank. She hoped Sirius hadn’t tricked him into Apparating into Muggle London again, Aunt Walburga had punished Kreacher rather severely that time.

Sirius deliberately ignored Reggie’s panicked tugging at his sleeve. “No matter. Say, Andy, you wouldn’t happen to have any of those biscuits would you?”

“Has Aunt ordered Kreacher not to give you any?” queried Andromeda, amused.

“One could say that,” he admitted. “But she also never said we couldn’t ask _you_ to give us any.”

Adorably, Reggie and Sirius earnestly attempted to look innocent and utterly failed. “ _Please_ , Andy?”

Hearing the rumble of men’s voices from upstairs, Andromeda hurriedly handed over her own stash of Kreacher’s biscuits. She preferred Memsie’s biscuits anyways - her recipe used cinnamon. “Here, but don’t say you got them from me!”

Delighted, Sirius opened his gob and immediately shoved two into his mouth. With a muffled, _“Cheers!”_ he hauled his little brother up and together they scampered back up to their rooms.

For the life of her, she could never figure out how Walburga had managed to produce such charming boys. It was enough to make you doubt their parentage, but the thought of Walburga taking a lover was both disgusting and unimaginable.

“’ _Meda!_ Where are you? We’re heading home!” drifted Cissa’s voice down the hall, as the ladies began to take their leave.

Andromeda nearly sighed with relief. Thank the Goddess, she  _despised_ Grimmauld Place.

 

* * *

 

**Rosier Mews House - Summer Solstice, June 21, 1999**

When Andromeda had first broken ties with her family, Cissa hadn’t been at home. Although Mother cried and Father raged, neither of her sisters had been physically present for her announcement.

Because she had never really seen Cissa react to the news, Andromeda had always secretly hoped that meant she hadn’t reacted as poorly as the rest. Cissa had always been her favourite, her baby sister.

After a difficult labour, Mother had welcomed her and Bella into the nursery of the country manor the sisters had grown up in. Promptly, a fight had broken out between the toddlers over the angelic newborn in the bassinet, who woke and wailed when jostled. Despite being sent to bed crying, without supper, it was the birth of the lifelong dynamic between the Black sisters.

Golden-haired and pink-cheeked, Cissa had taken after the Rosier side of the family in a clear departure from traditional Black family dark good-looks. She was indisputably the darling of the Black sisters and rarely denied anything she ever wanted.

Despite the coddling, Cissa had been an even-tempered and charming child, if a bit capricious. As the middle child constantly at odds with the domineering and explosive Bella, Andromeda welcomed Cissa’s presence as a respite from the constant bickering - and knew Bella did the same. Cissa grew to be the glue that bound the sisters together, often playing confidant and advisor to both while rarely sharing much of her own. Cissa was always more reserved than the public persona she put on for the sake of others.

Until she made her fateful decision, Andromeda had not really understood what a life without Cissa would be like.

As was expected with every errant Black, her connection with Cissa was effectively severed by Andromeda’s whirlwind elopement with Ted Tonks. Her first and last letter was returned unopened, wax seal intact.

Regardless of the pain caused by the rift, it was a decision she could never bring herself to regret. The years she had had with Ted and their daughter were full of more life than all the years spent being a perfect Black sister. Most tellingly of all, Andromeda struggled to regret her lost ties to Bella in the same way she missed Cissa.

Over the years - through society pages and wagging tongues - Andromeda heard of the life she herself might have lived. She’d been informed of Cissa’s enviable marriage to that Malfoy bastard (not literally, _the scandal_ ); of dazzling charity galas and glittering jewels; of the birth of a long-awaited son; and of unsavoury ties to that  _other_ bastard (that one quite literally). Not once had Cissa written to her, even all those years ago when Bella had been condemned to rot in prison over those unspeakable crimes.

(Bella, her brooding, passionate, temperamental older sister had been dead to her since then. Whoever emerged from Azkaban, whoever she became - that was not Bella and Andromeda was welcome to despise her freely).

Not once had she heard from her baby sister... until now. Over twenty years and two wars later.

On a bright June morning, a month and a half after Beltane, Andromeda stood on the sidewalk facing a long-forgotten mews house in the historically fashionable Mayfair district of London. On the exterior, the house was small and unassuming - very different from the lavishness of the Malfoy townhouse Andromeda knew was tucked away somewhere else the city. Cissa's choice in residence was strategic, that she could tell, but for what purpose was to be determined.

Fisted in one hand was Narcissa’s message, a perfunctory olive branch on luxurious heavy parchment - enchanted to self-destruct to if opened by the wrong hands. For some, the war was far from over.

Approaching the house carefully, she surreptitiously flicked her wand, feeling her magic brush up against the magical protections. The old Rosier wards hummed, recognizing one of their own blood, while an additional layer of Legilimency sussed out her intentions. Had those been less than innocent, Andromeda suspected a more malignant curse would have made an appearance - one of the barely legal variety favoured by the Black family.

Once a Black sister, always a Black sister.

Having passed muster, Andromeda quietly strode up to the white brick façade and sharply knocked on the simple black front door. It was an unnecessary politesse - if Cissa and her boy knew what was good for them, they would have been aware of her presence the moment she Apparated on their doorstep.

Not a minute later, the door swung open to reveal a wizened little house-elf. Her bulbous eyes were a nebulous blue, nearly blinded by cataracts, and she wore a neatly pressed white pillowcase with eyelet lace trim as a shift.

“Hello, Memsie,” greeted Andromeda, surprise colouring her voice.

“Missy Andromeda,” croaked Memsie, the old Rosier house-elf. “Come inside, my Mistress will see you in her parlour.”

In line with pureblood tradition, Mother had most likely given Cissa her own house-elf as a wedding gift. Originally intended as a way to protect married daughters, gifted house-elves often served as key allies to the young women in their husbands’ households. Since house-elf magic was dependent on their master’s magical core, Memsie’s loyalty was solely to Narcissa and her offspring - not Lucius and the Malfoys.

Stepping over the threshold, Andromeda discovered a simple but bright and airy interior - decorated in the mauve blues and ivories leftover from the Rosiers’ French heritage.

Originally part of Druella Rosier’s dowry, Father had not found much use for the quaint little mews house during their London visits when the much more opulent Grimmauld Place was just across town. He had not seen any appeal to the converted carriage house attached to the back of old Rosier Place, so close to his interfering in-laws. It seemed that after Druella’s death, the house had gone to her favourite daughter.

Never having been intended as a main residence, Andromeda knew it had few rooms and lacked the grandeur of a traditional family seat. At some point, a Rosier patriarch had chosen to keep his mistress there, so the decoration had a decidedly feminine touch.

Despite the three beings living there, the house still looked shuttered. Paintings and furniture were covered by protective cloths, a thin layer of dust coating most surfaces. Although a few spots looked like they had been vigorously tackled, for the most part, the house appeared uninhabited.

For all her loyalty, poor old Memsie seemed to be at what Aunt Walburga called ‘the beheading age.’

Little Memsie ushered her into a dainty sitting room, which appeared to be the only room clean enough for entertaining. Two chintz chairs faced a set of French doors leading to a fragrant garden, replete with magical blooms. A delicate porcelain tea set was already served with hot tea and biscuits - a _Muggle_ brand.

From one of those chairs stood an elegant, slender figure.

 _Cissa_.

Andromeda’s sister was still as beautiful as ever, but the planes of her face appeared sharp and hardened as if carved from marble. The resplendent white gold hair of her youth had faded to platinum blonde, streaked with white at the temples and braided in a coronet around her head.

A queen with no throne.

“Andromeda, thank you for coming. Please, take a seat,” Cissa spoke in a sigh, as if her voice went unused for long periods of time.

Despite the long years apart, neither sister hugged nor wept. Instead, they scrutinized each other carefully, measuring and taking in changes, searching for cues to inform the subsequent interaction.

It was a reunion that would have made their mother proud. It was also, Andromeda instinctively knew, something that would have driven her Ted insane.

From the first, Andromeda could sense that Cissa did not seek sympathy or pity, let alone an over-emotional tearful reunion that reeked of insincerity. Best to go straight to the grain.

“Why have you asked me here, Cissa?”

Her sister paused, pointedly choosing to not to respond. “Let’s have some tea first, shall we? Memsie, please offer _my sister_ some refreshments.”

Although Memsie did not abide by the Black family tree as Kreacher did, the emphasis on the familial relationship established that Narcissa would not permit any disrespect under her roof. It was a peace offering, expressing to Andromeda that Narcissa was willing to recognize her as one of her own.

She accepted the proffered cup, patiently waiting for Cissa to initiate the conversation. Unlike Bella, Andromeda had never been one to ruin the moment with impetuousness.

“I think I owe you an apology,” began Cissa, perfectly composed other than the tightly clasped slender hand in her lap. “No, I _know_ I do. Many apologies, in fact.”

“For?” Andromeda arched an inquisitive brow, curious about what Cissa believed she had to atone for. It was also an expression that highlighted her uncanny resemblance to their sister Bella. From the slight tightening of her mouth, it appeared Cissa saw the similarity as well.

“Where to begin? For your husband, for your daughter, even for her werewolf husband-”

“His name was _Remus_ -” Andromeda broke in, her temper flaring. She would not tolerate any disrespect towards her daughter's husband, certainly a nobler man than any they had been raised with.

“Forgive me, I did not mean to offend.”

Looking more chastised than a woman of her age should, Narcissa fell silent. Her entire demeanour lacked the quiet confidence that had enabled her to rule pureblood society with an iron grip. Instead, she seemed uncertain, as if she was treading on thin ice and didn't know where to step.

Observing the blossoming garden beyond the French doors, Andromeda noticed a cluster of rare white stargazer lilies. Among the brightly coloured blooms at Dora’s and Remus’ funeral had been a modest wreath of these blooms, the preferred flower of the Black family. No note had accompanied the flower arrangement.

Resolving to be kinder, Andromeda smiled ruefully. “Old habits die hard, don’t they? Even I had difficulties coming to terms with their marriage - not because of what he was, but because of the prejudice I knew Dora would face by association. But Remus was a good man, in spite of his condition.”

Andromeda decided that if she was committing to this, she would work on Cissa’s prejudices later, tabling that inevitable conversation for another time.

Cissa looked regretful, or as close to regretful as Narcissa Black could look.

“It’s not just for the werewolf. It’s for the years, for the distance, for not being brave…” her voice went very quiet. “For Bella.”

Even in death, Bella’s overbearing ways were inescapable. The weight of her memory settled in the heavy silence between the remaining sisters, who’d mourned the loss of their third long before her death.

“None of us can be held responsible for Bella,” declared Andromeda, breaking the ice with a tone sharper than intended. Cissa had always cared for Bella more than she ever could, making excuses for things Andromeda had found unforgivable (like water and oil they’d been, since birth).  “She chose her fate a long time ago.”

Cissa looked resigned. “Even then, I did not nothing while our family was driven apart, while Bella fell into the clutches of that madman. We walked straight past the gates of Tartarus, ‘Meda, but I did nothing to stop it.”

Despite the sombre topic at hand, Andromeda’s heart surged with hope. Cissa had not called her ‘Meda in over twenty-five years.

“If you have asked me here to atone for every sin you have ever committed Cissa, you are wasting my time,” Andromeda replied, tone measured. “I am no priestess. The war is over and the past is in the past. We cannot change what happened… the only thing you can change is what will.”

“ _How? How can I change anything?_ Look at what we’ve been reduced to,” Narcissa retorted, gesturing helplessly at her current abode - though not exactly destitution, it was a far cry from the luxuries of Malfoy Manor. “I’m irrelevant on my best days, despised at my worst. I can’t even live in my own home, it’s been quarantined by the Aurors for months. I’m not living ’Meda, I’m _surviving_.”

The torrent of words came out in a rush, the first break in Cissa’s composure. Oh Cissa, some things never really do change.

Andromeda nearly rolled her eyes, unimpressed. She wanted to end what looked like a months-long pity party before it really took steam. “Seems to me an improvement from having You-Know-Who at your breakfast table.”

Cissa’s jaw tightened, “The Dark Lord  _never-_ ”

“ _You-Know-Who_ ,” Andromeda emphasized, wanting to nip that ‘Dark Lord’ nonsense in the bud as well. “Is as dead as a doorknob, thank Harry Potter. You’re alive and that’s more than others can say.”

Involuntarily, Andromeda touched the collar of her robes, underneath which rested a cheap silver Muggle locket with pictures of Dora and Ted, the reassuring cool of the metal always pressed against her chest.

Cissa fell silent, but she was still clasping her hands tightly.

“What about your boy, where is he?”

“Draco is… asleep.”

Andromeda paused in surprise. “It’s almost _midday_ , Cissa.”

For the first time, Cissa looked uncomfortable. Both women were aware that most strapping eighteen-year-olds did not waste their days in bed - especially the well-bred kind. “Draco just returned from Hogwarts... He has few friends left in Britain, those who aren’t in Azkaban have left for the continent.”

Not a surprise. Most pureblood families with questionable allegiances during the war had decamped for the continent as soon as the borders opened up again. These families had syphoned off their wealth to where the Ministry would not be able to follow.

“So he spends his days at home?”

“ _Master Draco is a not being a proper wizard!_ He sleeps all day and then goes out after supper. Mistress isn’t seeing, but he comes back after Mistress has gone to bed, smelling like a liquor cabinet!”

“ _Memsie!”_ rebuked Narcissa sharply, but the little house-elf looked defiant after her intervention from the corner of the room.

Andromeda was pleased to see that Narcissa had not attempted to squash her house-elf’s spirit - although it would have been near impossible since Memsie had seen them all in nappies. Memsie had always been loyal to her mistresses and their offspring, but she loathed to see them behaving below their station. In her unforgiving approach to propriety, Memsie was all that remained of their mother.

Taking note of this potential ally, Andromeda forged on. “Draco needs an occupation then, something to do with his time so he does not fall into idleness. Have you been in contact with that husband of yours?”

If the mention of Draco had made Cissa vulnerable, bringing up Lucius turned her to stone. “I have not seen Lucius in months.”

Wisely, Andromeda kept her thoughts to herself as Cissa did not seem to want to elaborate further. Her dear brother-in-law was certainly in trouble.

Personally, Andromeda thought it would have been ideal to have Lucius locked away for life. However, she knew her sister would suffer without her ridiculous peacock of a husband. In any case, he would be dealt with when the time came (in nine years, thank the Goddess).

“And what do _you_ do all day, Cissa? Tea parties?” The question was a little tactless to be sure, but Andromeda knew it would bring out whatever backbone was left in her sister.

Immediately, Cissa's voice turned hard. “The families of our acquaintance are either out of the country or indisposed to receive us - despite taking full advantage of our hospitality when it was _You-Know-Who_  summoning them to the Manor. Nowhere else is the Malfoy name welcome.”

“Then, have you thought about an occupation? A job, perhaps?”

Cissa looked aghast, as if Andromeda had suggested she take Tom, the hunchback bartender at the Leaky Cauldron, as a lover.

Loyal Memsie harrumphed from the corner of the room.

“I hardly mean that you start working as a barmaid at the Hog’s Head. But you can’t hide away forever, Cissa. You’re still young.”

Her sister still seemed unconvinced. “But what would I even _do_? And if Lucius were to hear I was working -”

“ _Narcissa Black,_ ” scolded Andromeda, inadvertently channelling the steely mannerisms of their great-grandmother. “Your husband is rotting away in prison and your son is wasting away at home and drinking himself to sleep every night. What do you plan to do about it?”

Narcissa’s blue gaze turned steely at Andromeda’s challenge. A creaking above their heads alerted them to the movements of the last, unseen occupant. Although it was now past noon, it seemed Draco was finally awake.

Cissa turned to Andromeda, expression determined.

“Well, I supposed we better get to work then.”

**Author's Note:**

> *Canon divergence: Neither Lucius nor Draco receive prison sentences in canon, but for the sake of character growth and a personal disgust for impunity - they get sentences in this story.
> 
> **At a now infamous Malfoy Yule Ball, Cassie was publicly challenged by Abraxas Malfoy’s new young wife over adultery allegations. The subsequent scandal and shame enabled Cassie’s younger sister, Dorea Black, to accept an entirely unsuitable marriage proposal from Charlus Potter. Mrs Dorea Potter now credits her own conjugal bliss to her sister’s own indiscretions and shameless disrespect for marital vows. This version of Cassiopeia Black is heavily inspired by ShayaLonnie’s portrayal of Cassie Black in _The Reclamation of Black Magic_. 
> 
> ***Namely, a half-blood mistress Pollux sets up in a secret flat in Muggle London. The result of this affair is a little girl who grows up to be a fine woman and mother - unlike the parent who never publicly acknowledges his illegitimate child.
> 
> -
> 
> Thank you so much for getting this far. I am working on chapter two, but flipping between past and present makes for an interesting writing process. Also, I'm attempting to post my Black family tree that I've painstakingly put together in an attempt to procrastinate master's applications. Any suggestions for where to put that? Tumblr?
> 
> Update: Edited some minor grammatical errors and added a bit more explanation where I felt it was lacking - overall, the edits don't warrant a re-read but I hope it cleared things up for future readers. Hopefully the Black family tree did not become too confusing while reading (long story short: everyone is somehow related amongst the old families because incest!), but if I need to be clearer as to exactly how everyone is related, please just let me know in the comments.
> 
> Thanks again for reading!


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